


Paralytic states of dependency

by lesbianbookworm



Series: whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kinda), Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Drugging, Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt!Sam, Sam Winchester Whump, Supportive Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbookworm/pseuds/lesbianbookworm
Summary: Sam killing and defeating Kipling is not enough for every demon to believe that he has what it takes to take over hell. One overzealous follower decides that he has to take matters into his own hands if he wants the boy king to be seated on his throne again.
Series: whumptober 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677829
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	Paralytic states of dependency

**Author's Note:**

> This story was actually supposed to be for Whumptober 2019, Day 21, prompt "Laced Drink", but I never finished it. Well, now it's finally done. I hope all of you manage to stay healthy and safe during this exhausting time. Enjoy!
> 
> Triggers warnings for violence, drugging and force feeding.

Even after Cas had healed him, two fingers pressed shortly to his forehead, the cool touch of grace - less cold than Lucifer, but cooler than Gadreel, who had run relatively warm and definitely colder than Michael - radiating through him, Sam’s head is still ringing from the blows Kipling had dealt him. Or just crowded, filled to the brim with everything that’s happening. Sam isn’t entirely sure which, but he feels queasy and tired when they finally arrive at the Bunker sometime around three am. Bobby and Mary stumble to their rooms, Cas goes with Jack to make sure he’s okay after everything that happened and Sam… Well, Sam’s exhausted, sure, but he’s also much too hyped up to try and get any sleep.

It isn’t like he can simply lie back and relax, get a good night’s sleep and wake up to a world that’s better, because that’s not how it works. Not when Michael’s out there, using his brother’s body to kill and destroy and maybe trying to turn this planet into as much of a wasteland as he had his own, death toll in the millions, the apocalypse Sam had sacrificed himself to stop happening anyway. He’s not going to let that happen, he can’t. Not with all the people from the other world relying on him to help them find their way around, to settle into a more normal routine of hunting, or even to settle down altogether, somewhere safe and quiet now that angels aren’t a constant threat. Not with Jack graceless, vulnerable and angry after everything he had seen, struggling with feeling powerless in a way he’s never had to before. Not with Mary finally back in this world, in the bunker, where she’s supposed to be safe and with her family, but instead just running from one war zone to another. Not when his family isn’t whole, having been torn apart by heaven’s feathered dick bags and their holy plans _again_.

So Sam can’t just lie down and wait for the headache to subside on its own, because that would mean taking a break and he can’t do that. He’s afraid of the dreams he might have, afraid of waking up again to the same bleak hopelessness that has been slowly choking him ever since Michael had taken off with Dean. Sam remembers being back in that church and for just a second he wishes he hadn’t reached for Jack, hadn’t forced his brother to say yes to Michael to save him from Lucifer again, but he shakes that thought of nearly as soon as it arrives. He could never betray Jack like that, no matter how many new regrets any decision he makes seems to cause him. So there’s no way he can lie down, no way he can relax now, not if he doesn’t want to sink into a deep pit of hope- and helplessness. Instead he walks into the library and pulls a book from the shelf and settles down for more research. There has to be something hidden inside this gigantic library that will allow him to figure out a way to save Dean and if Sam has to read every damn book ever written to find it, he will.

He cracks open the book and starts reading, even as the spark of hope inside him flickers and dims further. Cas had been working his way through many of the books already. Sam, too, had worked through the ones that looked like they might carry any piece of useful information before Cas had asked Kipling for help, leading to the rescue mission. But now Cas is back and Cas is safe, and maybe, just maybe they missed something in the books the first time and if Sam just looks closely enough, he will be able to find it and then, maybe, he will be able to tear Michael out of his brother and maybe stuff him down into the cage with the other Michael or back into the other world or use his grace to help Jack and fix all of this.

His headache increases with each page he turns, finding no new information, no magical summoning or binding spells that they missed before and by the time he closes the book again, the jittery feeling has only grown and it makes Sam feel hopeless. Frustrated, he buries his face in his hands as various horror scenarios about what Dean might be going through right now dance in front of his eyes. (Is Michael like Lucifer, keeping Dean just beneath the surface, forcing him to watch everything he’s doing, to feel the snap of a neck sending tremors down his arms, his fingertips digging into someone’s face, violence and guts and blood until it’s all that Dean can see and smell and feel, or is he like Gadreel, trapping Dean in memories of another time to keep him from fighting back, but everything is just slightly warped, the taste of ozone and impending doom and the creeping terror that his PTSD just got a lot worse or that he’s finally lost it all together?)

He startles and tenses when he hears the scuff of boots against floor from the hallway, but relaxes when he sees Thomas enter the library, an apologetic smile on his lips. Of all the hunters from the other world, Thomas is one that had adjusted relatively quickly, excited to be able to go on a morning run without having to fear an angel attack and most of all excited about the small coffee shop in town. Like a few times last week, it seems that his steps led him there and he returned with two cups in hand.

“Hey, Chief. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I thought you could maybe use a little pick-me-up. I heard what happened.”

He steps up to the table and Sam can’t meet his eyes, knows there’d be pity - because he failed again - or fear - because the demons had listened to him like demons shouldn’t and Sam can still feel Bobby’s gaze burning into him, questioning and hard and afraid and even though it wasn’t the same Bobby who told him to lose his number all those years back (and that hadn’t been Bobby either, just the demon that possessed him, but the words still stung), it still made him want to beg forgiveness - and Sam’s too exhausted for either. When he finally looks up, he lets his gaze run past Thomas, resting just above his shoulder so it’s not too obvious he can’t actually meet his eyes. He forces a smile to rush across his face, hoping it doesn’t look as much effort as it feels. “Thank you.”

“You’ll find him, I’m sure of it”, Thomas says, his voice calm and reassuring before he hands over the cup, gesturing for Sam to drink a bit. “Here, some liquid strength.”

Sam nods gratefully and after letting his palm rest on the cup a bit to figure out if he can risk draining it halfway in one sip, he lifts it to his mouth and does just that. By the time he realizes that the smell and taste is off, he swallowed a few mouthfuls and it’s sugar sweet and iron bitter, filled the promise of strength and it burns as it runs down his throat and that’s not coffee, or at least not just coffee, and Sam is choking on it. He spits out what he hasn’t yet swallowed - too late, too damn fucking late for that though - and throws the cup away, his cry strangled when Thomas - Not-Thomas - catches him by the throat and forces him back down onto the chair.

Its grip is iron and Sam knows he’s going to carry those bruises like a necklace if he survives this, but most importantly, he’s not going to be able to scream. He brings his hands up to push the possessed man above him away, but he hadn’t carried any weapons on him - not here, not in the library of all things and he should have know he could never truly be save, he should have taken precautions - and he’s too weak and there’s demon blood inside him, it’s inside him _again_.

“Shhh, Sammy, calm down. I’m just here to help you. You made a compelling case staking your claim on the throne-” Sam tries to listen, knows demons like nothing more than the sound of their own voice and maybe he can convince it somehow to let him go, to let Thomas go, to leave him alone, but his heart is racing, thundering in his ears, pumping the poison through him and everything’s blood red and sulfur yellow. The demon seems to notice that it’s not being listened too, because it sighs and snaps its fingers impatiently, leaning closer to Sam and tilting his head up, so he’s forced to look into its jet black eyes. Then it continues, enunciating clearly and slowly as if it was talking to a child. “You see, when you killed Kipling, you set yourself up as the next one in line. Now don’t worry, I’m not here to kill you or your little gang of merry hunters and make a grab for the throne myself. Like I said, you made a compelling case and I support you. But not everyone will. So you’ll need a little help and I’m here to give you that leg up.” The demon smiles at that, soft like a mother might and gives Sam a pat on the head as if it’s trying to comfort him. Then it lifts its arm to its mouth and Sam knows what it’s planning on doing and chokes out a strangled no.

“Use… use a knife”, he finally bites out and shame wraps around his chest as he does so. He’s never had a demon tear into their own wrist to feed him, but he remembers the way his own teeth had sunken into throats and tore through flesh when Famine had made him ravenous and even though he knows it’s not gonna have the same effects in most other people - in those who haven’t been affected by Azazel’s taint since birth - Sam doesn’t want to see Thomas choking on his own blood either. He’s already starting to feel jittery and he’s not entirely sure if it’s the demon blood that’s being absorbed in his stomach right now or just nerves, but either way he hates it.

The demon smirks. “Somebody’s come to his senses.” The demon reaches into its back pocket and produces a knife, its other hand still wrapped securely around Sam’s throat, squeezing a bit harder again, probably to prevent him from getting any stupid ideas like yelling for help. The demon grips the knife between its teeth and then, messily, slices its wrist on the blade, the first few splatters sprinkling on Sam’s face and shirt. Then it quickly lowers its arm and pushes it against Sam’s closed mouth, rubbing blood against his lips - Vampire, Sam thinks, blood-sucking Freak - and he tries to lean back a bit, but the demon holds him tight and merciless. He doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to smell it, but he’s craves it again since the copper taste has coated his tongue. He can already feel the ravenous thirst that’s raging inside of him, begging him to drink deep. The demon spits out the knife and it clatters against the ground somewhere beside Sam, tauntingly close, but so far away at that it might as well be on another planet. “Well, come on. Open up, Sammy.” The hand that’s grabbing him by the throat moves up and then the demon is boring its fingers into the pressure points of Sam’s jaw, threatening to shatter bone. Sam gasps when the pain becomes overwhelming and then warm blood is trickling into his mouth. Sam tries not to swallow, keeps his throat tense, but he’s already losing, can feel the poison run down his throat and into him. But he still has to breathe and so he’s spluttering, chocking and finally swallowing it down.

The demon flexes its fist, making the blood flow faster, while its other hand is massaging Sam’s throat, forcing him to swallow more and more and suddenly Sam knows what he has to do and he immediately hates himself for it. He teases his tongue against the split skin and starts suckling, drinks the blood down. Immediately he can feel the demon relax above him, secure that its plan worked, that Sam is a ravenous beast with no self control, but without Famine it had never been that way. Of course he had liked it, liked the way it made him feel powerful, liked the idea that he could save people, liked the idea that he could avenge Dean, but when he wasn’t in the throes of desperate hunger or going through withdrawal he hadn’t needed it. He wasn’t actually hungry for the demon blood - if he was honest, it tasted terribly, like iron and sulfur and self hatred - just for its power. That doesn’t stop the shame crashing over him like a wave though.

He doesn’t know if it will even work or how to know when he’s good to go, but the familiar thrum of energy is building inside him quickly and Sam isn’t sure if he can even still do it by the time he feels he’s had enough, but he pushes outwards and Thomas goes flying, hitting the table and Sam winces, wishes he had taken more care, but now is not the time for him to feel bad about this. His head is swimming as he gets up and flings his hand out, everything just a bit to bright and too loud and his heartbeat thunders as it pumps the poison further through his veins. He decides to force the demon out of Thomas, unsure if he has the power to do anything more with it and event though it’s been a long time since he did this, he can feel his power wrap around the demon nearly on its own accord and he yanks hard. Black smoke comes pouring out of Thomas and for a moment Sam just wants to let it go, force his fingers down his throat as if throwing up would help anything when the blood’s already in him, but he can’t let the demon get away with this or more will come for him and everyone he cares for, he just knows it. He took a stance once before after Kipling died and that means he has to finish what he started. He wraps his powers around its now slimy form which is probably easier than it should be after ten years with no practice, but it isn’t, it’s like riding a bike, and squeezes. A sharp pain begins in his temples and then throbs across his forehead until it feels like his brain is on fire as he squeezes tighter. He can feel blood trickling down his face from his nose and he’s sure some capillaries must have broken in his eyes, leaving them bloodshot, but he can’t stop now. He can feel the demon dissolve, but it’s still gloating, still happy and secure that its sacrifice is worth it and anger surges through Sam and with one last push, the demon burns up.

Sam stumbles as exhaustion kicks in, his legs suddenly heavy like lead and it feels like a chain is wrapped around his chest, making it hard to breathe and then he’s crashing down, only barely able to catch himself before his face hits the floor. He knows he should check on Thomas, make sure he only got knocked out from the throw and didn’t have his skull split apart, or that the demon didn’t hurt him before he came to the Bunker, or that the blood loss wasn’t too bad, but he only barely manages to struggle to his knees, unable to get up further as he drags in shaky breaths. He should also apologize. After all the demon made it very clear that he had only come after him, using Thomas to do so, because he had somehow set himself up as the new Kind of Hell. The thought makes Sam’s stomach pang sharp with guilt.

He wobbles as he crawls towards Thomas, who is slumped on the ground, the cut on his wrist still bleeding sluggishly and Sam hates the way his eyes are immediately drawn to it and how he’s unable to look away. He did that. Not all of it, but it’s still partially his fault. He can see the way the wound is split further than it should be if it was a normal cut of this depth, skin dragged apart slightly to allow more blood to flow as he nursed on it - he had tried to be gentle, not like with Ruby where he had torn into her flesh, knowing that there was no one else in the body, using teeth and tongue to dig deeper because he needed more to become strong enough - but he obviously hadn’t done a good enough job. There’s also a second smaller cut that Sam hadn’t seen before and it must have been where the demon got the blood to spike the cup with.

Bile rises in his throat, but he forces it down. He can worry about all that after he’s done his damned job. He rises his hand and puts two fingers gently against Thomas' throat. A pulse, weak but steady, flutters against his skin and Sam's shoulders slump in relief. Sitting back, he rubs his hand against his own throat, wincing slightly as he touches the bruised area there and again he can feel the sensation of the warm, tangy fluid running down his throat and settling like lead in his stomach.

This time he can't fight the twisting of his stomach and he bends over, spitting out coffee, stomach acid and blood, a slight cinnamon scent remaining for the coffee. His stomach and chest cramp painfully as he heaves and when it finally subsides - useless, too late, the demonic part of the blood is already absorbed, its already in him, because his body craves it, wants it, needs it and won't give up any part of it - his eyes are burning and watery. Sam drops to the side and rolls onto his back. He knows he should get help, take Thomas to the infirmary, make sure he doesn't have a concussion and that the demon didn't do anything worse to him than Sam saw from his quick check up, knows he'll have to figure out how the demon got in here and figure out a way to detox, because they have no panic room here and the thought of locking himself in the dungeon sends shivers down his spine, but he’ll do it if he has to.

He got Thomas injured, made him undergo the trauma of possession and its his fault (another person robbed of their agency for him), because he should have thought of the fact that this could happen and the people from apocalypse world had no knowledge about demons, because they had been wiped out by Michael early on and so he should have told them more about them, insisted more that the either get tattoos or carry multiple anti-possession necklaces and bracelets and the self loathing that runs through him at that realization is nearly as bad as the demon blood.

Another painful pulse of his head tears him out of it and Sam gets back onto his hands and knees, knowing that if he doesn’t move now, he’s not going to be moving for a while. After checking that Thomas is still out, but breathing, he drags himself up, first with the chair, then with the table until he’s standing. He staggers through the library and out into the hallway, unsure if his legs feel unsteady because of the receding adrenaline or if it’s a side effect of the demon blood, but he forces himself to keep going. He can hate himself later when his job is done. Cas is the first person he sees, standing in the kitchen and preparing tea, probably for Jack, and shame burns through Sam. He doesn’t want Jack to know about that part of his past, guilt sitting heavy like a stone in his stomach, but he doesn’t really have another choice, not if he’s gonna be detoxing for days again.

“Cas?” he croaks out and Cas immediately turns toward him, worry clear on his face and then morphing into shock and sadness as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“Sam? Sam, are you hurt?”

And Sam suddenly realizes that beside the bruises on his throat and some blood on his hands and shirt from splatters and what he whipped off his face, he isn’t hurt, because he didn’t fight, he just gave up and let it happen and his legs give way under him and he crumbles again, sliding down the frame. He managed to drag himself through the forest for a few miles with a gut shot and massive blood loss and killed the werewolf that was about to tear apart his brother and this time he didn’t even manage to fight of a measly demon. The thought that he maybe had wanted it, somewhere subconsciously, and that’s why he hadn’t fought as hard as he could have, wraps around him like a dark cloud.

“I’m not”, he finally forces out as Cas is kneeling down beside him, having rushed to his side. He lifts his hand to stop Cas from touching him, fear that the angel will be able to tell immediately that he’s tainted again and not just covered in demon blood and even though he knows Cas isn’t going to judge him, not anymore, he can’t deal with him figuring it out right now. He’d be too distracted and Thomas needs him more. “I’m not hurt, I promise. Can you go to the library and look after Thomas? Or send somebody else to check on him?” Sam adds quickly, remembering that even though no one is afraid of Cas, not after Jack fought on their side for so long, showed them that an angel’s powers aren’t inherently bad, they might not like to be healed anyway, only ever learning to associate angels with pain, torture and death.

Cas’ face tightens and he nods. “Alright, but we’ll talk later. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” With that Cas gets up and hurries down the hallway. When he sees Thomas or asks what happened, Cas will know the truth anyway, if he’s not already suspecting it from the sulfuric stench covering Sam and suddenly Sam lurches upwards, to the sink, stomach cramping, but nothing comes up, the already meager content of his stomach left behind on the library’s floor. He turns on the faucet, rinses and spits out, the slightly pink fluid swirling down the drain. He wants to scrape it off his tongue but it wouldn’t help at all. It’s still in him in a way he can never scrub clean.

He turns the water off again and dries his hands now that the taste of iron is - hopefully - only a memory and no longer actually there and stumbles to the chairs. He knows he’ll have some time before it gets bad and so he allows himself to rest for a moment, forces the shiver to subside as he breathes deeply, hoping it will slow his still racing heart a bit.

But his brain doesn’t slow down, caught up on so many questions. How did the demon get in here? The Bunker is warded at least against low level demons as this one must have been and the last demon that managed to get in here was Asmodeus, a prince of hell powered on archangel grace- Asmodeus. Of course. Anger and fury and more shame hits Sam like a fist to the face. He had forgotten, too busy with Mary and Jack being stuck in the other world and then Lucifer and then helping the hunters settle and then Dean, God, Dean, who is possessed by an angel, by an archangel, by Michael, who wants to destroy the world. He must have destroyed many wardings here that kept them out before and Sam hadn’t fixed it, hadn’t even thought of it. How many of the people that came here seeking safety had he exposed to terrible danger, the potential of death and injury or the trauma of possession and being forced to hurt somebody they loved? His mistake could have cost so much more than the demon blood forced down his throat.

Despite shivers racking his body, he forces himself up. He has to warn them, get them started on fixing the Bunker’s security system, clean up the mess he left behind in the library and he’s gonna need more help than Cas can give him if he wants to get it done as fast as possible. After all, there’s always the possibility that the demon wasn’t alone.

He’s getting dizzy, hyperventilation and terror sapping all of his strength, the whole process accelerated by the demon blood and the powers he used, but he can’t allow himself to break down yet. He stumbles out of the door and directly into Cas. “Is he-”

“I healed the cut on his arm, then Mary and Bobby brought him to a room so he can rest up. He was possessed. By a demon. And the demon, they… they weren’t there anymore.”

Sam knows Cas doesn’t want to say it, but there’s no way he didn’t put two and two together.

“I didn’t want to”, he mumbles, more to himself than to Cas. He’s pretty sure Cas won’t blame this on him, but he feels the need to state it anyway. Beg for forgiveness before the accusations can even begin to rain down on him.

“I know. It didn’t look that way. Did… How much?” Cas finally asks after letting the reassuring words hang in the air for a while until Sam relaxes a little.

Sam doesn’t know. It had only been a little bit at first, but then he had- He had-

Another shudder runs through him and his knees buckle and he falls into Cas. Cas catches him easily and then gently pushes him back against the wall to carefully lower him to the ground when he realizes Sam can’t stand on his own anymore. “I don’t know”, Sam finally admits, curling up as if making himself smaller will somehow erase the fact that he’s a danger to everybody else here. But he doesn’t have time for a pity party. There’s too much to do. So he lifts his head again and locks eyes with Cas who has crouched down in front of him. “After you take me to the dungeon, can you check the Bunker’s warding? If there’s any more demons I don’t want them getting in. And… we’re gonna have to ask everyone here to get inked up. I wanted to avoid that, but at least it would keep them safe.” Cas opens his mouth as if to reply, but Sam quickly cuts him off, imploring him with his gaze. He’s got to make sure Cas know how serious this is. There’s no time for niceties. “Please Cas. Just take me to the dungeon.”

For a moment Cas doesn’t move, his lips tightening and his eyes searching for something, maybe a chink in Sam’s armor, but Sam doesn’t let up until Cas finally averts his gaze and then gently helps him up.

When Sam’s finally upright again, he puts his arm around Cas’s shoulder and with his help staggers down the hallway. Cas comes to a halt when they reach a split. “Sam, you could go to your room. The detoxing process is not a danger to anybody around you, just to yourself. You’d be more comfortable.”

His room. Sam hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might not have to be locked away in order to detox and while some tension eases at that realization, the thought of going to his room to endure the possible hallucinations and being flung around, potentially destroying the few things he holds valuable enough to keep there, makes him feel sick. Or well, sicker. He shakes his head quickly. “No. Not- Not there.” It had already taken so long to reclaim his space after Lucifer invaded it, he was not willing to connect any more poisonous memories with it.

Cas doesn’t press the point further, even though he visibly deflates a little, and simply leads him further down the hallway. “What about another room then? It… With everything going on, it would make it easier to have someone keep an eye on you if you stayed in one of the rooms here than in the dungeon.” Cas’ voice is measured and calm and for a moment Sam wants to do nothing more than to give in.

“Cas-”, he begins, trying to lay out a reason why he shouldn't (he doesn't deserve the kindness after all), but Cas cuts him off.

“I can stay with you the entire time if you want. Mary and Bobby can take care of things out here. You don’t have to carry this all by yourself.”

Cas sounds so convinced and Sam has no energy to fight him, not willing to give up this slight relief no matter how fake it feels. So he nods, slumping in exhaustion and then he lets Cas lead him further down the hallway, to whichever room the angel considers fitting.


End file.
